I've always thought the trope in story telling of recounting a narrative through retrospective was an interesting one. It could be done well, or horribly poorly.
There's a feeling in the back of my head. When it starts to push back. Music helps. No. Wait. I'm getting ahead of myself.
There's a shooting range here. I'd have burned my bow with the house... but it had meaning. I'm no marksman, but I can still hit a target. And the action of shooting, nock the arrow, take aim, pull back. Release. It's calming. It focuses the mind. I think I surprised Elaine a little. It's been hard to get to sleep. Keep waking up.
I dabbled in hobbies as a kid, a few things stuck here and there. Archery, from back in school, and if you'll believe it, I learned to fight with a staff. They thought it would teach me discipline. Well, I suppose it did. But mostly, I liked the idea that you could break someones ribs with it.
Elaine carries far too many knives. We sparred a little (she's better than me) until I got her shoulder which apparently hurt quite a bit. And that's when I noticed. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It was back. The fucking ticking alwaysthe fucking ticking. Tick tock. NO. None of that.
I could feel it starting to push in the back of my head. Elaine pointed it out. I tap out the beat when I can hear it. Old habit, keeping time. The music usually helps. But it didn't. There was something wrong and. I needed to leave. I remember going to get my rope back from Joel. And it was really starting to show at that point. So I ran. Always the running. If I've still got legs I'm running. I figured I could lose Joel on the third floor, duck in next to the door, let him go through and slip out behind him.
Nope. Elaine and Shaun were there. Turn the hell around and actually start running. And then Elaine locked down the house. I'd had the van loaded but the gate wouldn't open and... the ticking. God damn it. The ticking. I lose track of what happened there.
Next thing I know, I'm tied up, getting lugged around by Tia, Shaun's limping, my stomach feels like it's been bashed in by something with roughly the size, shape, speed and mass of a cannon ball, something's up with Joel and... I lost it. And now they've locked me up. I'm quarantined. Like I'm carrying a contagion.
Why'd you have to leave the damn notebook with me Elaine? Why that and not even a match? I want to burn this thing. Set the pages on fire and watch them burn.
sorry. I slipped.